


Flashover

by HippolytaGale



Category: RWBY
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Love at First Sight, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4722509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippolytaGale/pseuds/HippolytaGale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea was to stay close enough to protect her, but just out of reach. It's safer that way. Better.</p><p>But Yang has always managed to show up when Blake least expected it.</p><p>Sequel to Spark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashover

The knife in her hand was sharp and small. Handling Gambol Shroud for so long had accustomed her to a certain weight and heft, and the delicate necessity of her work had frustrated her many times. She had to cut deeply to make it through, but shallow enough not to damage the table underneath or mar the blade. She lined up a perfect diagonal angle, pressed her palm to the back of the knife, and took a steadying breath. A mistake here would be bad.

She pressed down.

Crisp phyllo crumbled under the blade, and the baklava’s gorgeous top layer cracked into loose pieces. The entire pastry had been smooth and perfect, and now it looked like a broken mirror.

“Fuck.” Blake muttered. 

She still wasn’t getting the hang of this. Using the tip of the knife, she patted the shattered pieces of the top crust back into place as carefully as she could, and then made the other incisions. When she finished, dozens of otherwise-perfect triangles pointed in all directions. Giving into temptation and the rare advantage of closing the bakery alone today, she slipped a piece into her mouth, the pistachios and honey brightening on her tongue like sunshine. 

Strangely, baklava reminded her of Yang. It wasn’t just the color of the dough (a few shades too golden-brown to match her hair) or the low sweetness of the dessert that always brought her to mind; it was the layers. The top crust appeared brittle, like it would fall apart at a glance, but underneath there was a density to it, a solid foundation. It had much more to it than what you would suspect at first glance. Boxing up the last of it for the day, Blake grimaced at the clumsy comparison, wondering for the nth time that day if it was abstractly preferable to return to wandering the streets penniless than keep her agile mind turning in the rat-race of this job; at least when she was half-starved she wasn’t this bad at poetic imagery. 

_Pastries and poetry, thinking about Yang all day long,_ she thought. _I’m going crazy._

But then nothing about the transition from terrorist to fugitive had been easy. What had been her whole existence crumbled when she encountered Yang during a White Fang operation; in no small way, meeting her had changed the entire direction of Blake’s life. 

She frowned, a bucket at her feet now, squeezing out a washcloth for cleaning. When she had gotten this job as a baker two months ago, she didn’t know how to work the way normal people did; the application she had turned in was a mess, fake names and dates half-scribbled to avoid questions, and the manager squinted at her unskilled hands working the register. Blake had fought soldiers and tracked deserters, robbed Dust shipments and watched people die, but here she learned how to count back change and scrub ovens, to take inventory and frost cakes. She felt like an idiot child and the punchline of a bad joke at the same time.

Still, plying an honest trade was good, and the black silk ribbon hiding her ears eased many of the concerns she had when first thinking of finding work. Her co-workers, all gone now in the last hour of the business day, never asked about the bow. If things kept quiet, she imagined she could be here for awhile—maybe she could build some savings, buy some transportation beyond the rickety bicycle in her studio, who knew. As long as she was hidden from Yang and close enough to keep an eye on her, any option was a good one.

Yang would hate that idea if she knew, but she was an idiot; a loving idiot, an idiot that would gladly fraternize with Blake until a White Fang assassin slid a knife between her ribs and left her to die in her Faunus lover’s arms, but Blake was more careful than that. She had a plan, and she would stick to it: she would make sure the White Fang was off her trail, protect Yang from the shadows until then, and after that…after that, perhaps they could continue what they started five months ago.  


They were special. She understood that the connection between them was different than what most people had. Her parents married after many years of being friends, and her co-workers always chatted about their boyfriends and girlfriends as ephemeral and temporary. That wasn’t how Blake felt, and she hoped it was still the same for Yang. Blake had difficulty capturing what she felt in words, and none of the books she loved to read could direct her in how to reflect on their unusual situation—though they barely knew each other, when Yang asked her to bare her soul, her rage and grief, she did without question. She talked about her mother and the fire that killed her, things even Adam had never heard about, and when she told Yang a weight had lifted inside. Even if it was just at that moment, even if it was absurd, it had freed her.

Helping Yang escape from the White Fang base and not leaving with her was the hardest decision she could have made, but it was the right one. Adam didn’t like it when broken things got fixed, and he didn’t like losing valuable hostages either. He would’ve found out in time. Blake knew she wouldn’t be able to conceal the spark of love Yang had kindled within her, and even now though she stayed away, it was impossible to leave the other girl behind—the desire to learn more about her, to have the chance to ease any of Yang’s pain the way Yang had eased hers—there was only one way Blake could process the feeling she got when she thought about her: 

_I want to know you._

The emails and letters were short in the beginning. She had Yang’s number from their first meeting, but a call would be too easy to trace, so writing was safer. She regretted the first email as soon as she sent it—after all, it was possible that Yang had moved on. It had been months since their brief interaction, and though Blake thought of her as soon as she awoke and right before she fell asleep, perhaps for Yang the power of their meeting had faded like washed-out memories often did. Perhaps Yang would open that email and then delete it so she wouldn’t have to remember Blake and all the trouble she caused. It couldn’t get much worse than that, Blake thought. Still, she sent Yang another letter, and more after that, never expecting to hear from her in turn, pouring out the contents of her thoughts like sand from a punctured sack. At first she worried the feelings would ebb away with time and distance, but they stayed as vibrant as the day they started. 

It was possible Yang had been right. Maybe their meeting had been destined. 

Even if Yang wanted to respond, she couldn’t. Blake only sent her messages through the Cor communication system, her words echoing through thousands of proxy relays and layered in onion-like encryptions; she was invisible, no trace attached to her online presence. It was better for Yang this way, and safer. And Blake could tell her how she felt without worrying if the other girl’s feelings had changed.

Blake checked her watch. Her shift would be done soon, the kitchen’s stainless steel tables already gleaming with sanitizer and the floors freshly mopped. As soon as six o’clock hit—the little bell above the door chimed and beckoned her to the counter. She froze at what she saw.  
She always thought the White Fang would find her in the end. There were never clean getaways. The morning after she set Yang free Adam had stared right through her; he suspected, remembered moments she doubted the cause, but he didn’t want to believe she would turn on him. Run, every instinct urged. When Blake fled the base the next night she had heard him howl through the trees, his face a ruin from her escape, his screams promising vengeance and torture and a slew of other unpleasant plans once he caught her. She had been thinking about the moment she would be found, and now that it was here she couldn’t move.

This wasn’t what she expected.

“Oh my god,” Yang breathed. 

They gawked at each other for a fraction of a second, long enough for Yang to drop the gas station cup she held in one gloved hand, ice and water spilling across the tile. Her mouth gaped. Her eyes went wide.

“Blake,” She said, a grin splitting wide across her face. “Blake!”

Yang surged forward and nearly tumbled, the toe of her boot catching on the edge of the counter as she jumped over it. She regained her balance in a stride and slammed into Blake so hard Blake lost her breath. She couldn’t find any words to speak—Yang’s strong hands were grabbing and stroking and holding her all at once in a blur.

“Yang—” She gasped, nearly crushed. 

The two of them stumbled and smashed against the steel rack that held rolls of cookies and boxed pies. Loose baguettes and elephant ears in bags showered over their heads, stray crumbs seeding through Yang’s lovely golden hair. She released Blake for a moment to brush the errant debris from her locks. Blake’s thoughts finally connected. She found the words and smacked Yang in the shoulder.

“Yang, what the hell!?” She shouted. 

“I’m sorry,” Yang flinched. “I got excited!” 

Now that the burst of shock from their meeting had passed, they stared at each other for a tense moment, unsure of what to do. There were many questions she could ask Yang: _How did you find me? What are you doing here? Do you still want me?_ Blake remembered what she had written in her last letter and a fierce color rose to her cheeks. She hoped her embarrassed expression didn’t read as anger, but it must have, because Yang swallowed nervously. She glanced at the floor now littered with damaged baked goods. 

“…I’ll, uh, clean this up. Where’s your broom?”

As Blake reached out a tight knot of emotion took residence in her throat. By the time her cheek found its resting place on Yang’s shoulder and her hands splayed across the broad curve of her back, air hung suspended in her lungs. She was probably holding her too tightly—fistfuls of leather squeaked in her grip—but Yang was here. She was alive, safe, and happy to see her. It was everything Blake had hoped for. After the smallest of pauses Yang returned the embrace with a firm squeeze.

“Hi.” She whispered into the side of Blake’s head. One hand stroked her hair, careful of the bow.

Underneath the joy Blake felt a thick skein of worry settle around her stomach. This was not good. It was what she had wanted, what she had daydreamed about for months, but it wasn’t safe. She dropped her arms in a flash, uneasy now, and took a step away. Tension settled in the space between them once again until Yang’s eyes returned to the mess on the floor.

“Broom.” She said.

She strode past her into the back of the shop, her scent like warm oiled leather and driftwood heady to Blake’s nose. As Yang peered around the work area, Blake released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding and joined her in the back. She opened the utility closet.

“Let me get it.” She said.

After the broken pastries and crumbs had been swept away, the watery mess on the tile mopped up, the front door locked, and the sign was turned off, Yang leaned against the back of the counter, her enthusiasm low-key now after being chastised earlier.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you. Seriously, it’s like my damn heart’s leaping out of my chest.”

Blake counted out the cash from the register, her mouth a line. 

“I bet you’re wondering how I found you,” Yang started. Her brows contracted together, looking much less pleased with herself as she watched Blake sort bills into the money bag.

“My dad has a programmer friend that works at the CCT. After the first email you sent I asked him if he could find the IP address of where that email was from.” 

“I used Cor. It’s supposed to be untraceable.”

“Not untraceable, just really hard to narrow down without a lot of time and expertise, and when you’re a guy that works on VIs all day time is one thing you always have. He sifted through the proxies and figured out you were somewhere in this area.”

Blake finished filling the bag and dropped it into the slot under the counter, where it made a dull _thwap_ as it hit the bottom of the safe. She untied her apron, dropping it into the laundry bin by the back entrance. Without a word she opened the back door, motioning for Yang to walk out first. The alley behind the shop reeked of garbage and cheap cigarettes.

“Yang, you do realize that you’re in danger now, right?”

Yang nodded.

“You know that because you found me, _because you sought me out,_ there’s a chance Adam’s going to hunt you down too. If he knew how we care about each other—if he finds out that we’ve met up again somehow—he’ll hurt you to get to me.” 

Her voice strained with frustration and worry. She took Yang by the wrist and pulled her along, happy to notice that at least the curve of retracted shotgun gauntlets could be felt under the bomber jacket’s sleeve.

“You’re coming over to my place.” She explained. “It’s not safe to talk here.”

 

 

 

Forty minutes and a dozen Lien later, the two of them sat at Blake’s yard-sale dining table, beers sweating condensation into their grasps. Yang brought her drink to her lips, eyeing the empty bottles already collecting on Blake’s side.

“Never figured you for the drinking type.”

“Right now it’s the only thing helping me think.” She glowered. “We need a new plan.” Yang tilted her head back to take a long swig of beer. Blake watched the bob of her throat and took another sip herself. 

“I wasn’t followed to the bakery, if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not. I’m worried that we won’t be able to stay away from each other.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not happening now.” Yang said with a lopsided grin. “You couldn’t keep me away from you if you tried.”

“I did. That was my whole plan, actually. But then again, you’ve been changing my plans since the moment we met.”

“You better believe it, sweetheart.”

She almost coaxed a smile from Blake with the endearment. Almost.

“So, what now?” Blake asked.

“Well, I didn’t get to dip you into a kiss when we met again like I was planning, but....”

“Yang.”

“Sorry. Just trying to help you relax.” She sighed. “If it helps, I had my dad’s contacts and a lot of motivation. I doubt the White Fang would go through the trouble of looking for you as hard as I have.”

“You don’t know my former associates then. They don’t let traitors get out alive.”

The edge in Blake’s voice sobered Yang up quick, but she didn’t shy away from the hard sheen in Blake’s gaze or the unbreakable tension sitting rigid in her shoulders. She rested her elbows on the table, one hand cupped over the other.

“I’d never let anyone hurt you, Blake. I swear.”

“I don’t need your protection. If anything, I’m putting you at risk. The longer we sit here, the more likely it is that Adam or one of his men will find you and torture you for even half an idea of where I am.”

“So we find them first, take them out before they have a chance to come after us.”

“That’s—” She sputtered. “Do you even have any idea of what you’re saying? These people are dangerous, more than you even imagine. You haven’t seen them do the things I’ve seen.”

“No,” She said. “But I know that I won’t let them take you. Not ever.” 

There was no overt trace of anger on her face, no red eyes or hot fury, only an absolute sense of truth etched into every line of her skin. She spoke and her voice was gentle, so gentle Blake almost didn’t sense the complete, utter rage at her pursuers just under the surface of Yang’s words.

“I’ll keep you safe, or I’ll fight every single one of them until I drop. Or both. But I won’t let them take you.”

“Do you even remember what happened the last time you fought the White Fang?”

“Sure. I met you.”

Blood rushed to her face and Blake both dreaded and adored the love radiating from Yang’s eyes. Happiness made people reckless; Blake never felt safety or affection after her mother died, but every second she held onto Yang’s hand or touched her shoulder or thought about pulling her close she felt it take root in her gut like a flowering tree, every root and branch telling her to listen to this absurd idea. And, strangely, she would.

“…What are you suggesting?”

“Find them, or lure them out into the open. If they’re still tracking you like you think, let them think that you’ve settled down, and while they plan an assassination, knock down their door and get them first. Or find them and hit them before they know you’re here. Or call the police and let them take care of it, whatever you want.”

“Is that all?”

“Do you have a better idea? Should we drop this whole soulmates-thing now, or were you banking on me being satisfied with your epic love letters for the rest of my life?”

Oh god, the letters. Jesus wept.

Blake groaned, an enormous blush creeping lightning-quick even into the tips of her ears. She sank her face into the protective square of her arms on the table, wishing for a blanket to hide under or a cliff to throw herself over. Yang reached over to pat her head, an edge of a giggle under her voice.

“What are you embarrassed about? I thought they were beautiful. And hot, you know? Like, I didn’t even know words could _be_ like that—sensual.” She sighed, sounding pleased. “ _Very_ sensual.”

Blake groaned again, more anguished than before. The things she wrote…God, if a bomb scattered her six ways across Vale it would be preferable to how stupid she felt. Yang laughed and touched her elbow.

“Gosh, you’re adorable. I’m lucky Ruby didn’t meet you first—she’d never be able to leave you alone.”

“Ruby? Is that your sister?” Blake asked, eager to change the subject.

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

“She’s good. She wants to work up in Atlas with her partner after graduation; they want to start a smithy up there, make weapons between Hunts, that sort of thing.”

“And your partner?” Yang snorted.

“Cardin? The bigot I told you about? He can suck a dick for all I care; the faster I can split from that bastard, the better.”

“And you?”

Yang brightened. “I was hoping we could pick up where we left off. Before the attack and the craziness started.” She paused. “Is this weird?” She asked.

“What’s weird?”

“This.” She said, gesturing between them. “Talking so comfortably like we are.”

“In any logical world it would be, but it’s not.” Blake shrugged. “You’re the love-at-first-sight expert, not me.”

“Hey, I never claimed to be an expert at anything. I’m just adrift in the sea of Fate here.” She ran her thumb along the lip on her empty beer bottle, her other fingers curled around its neck. “I’m only certain about two things. One: you’re stuck with me. Two: we’re going to make up for a hell of a lot of lost time after this is over.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup.”

“You have a lot of confidence.”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my best traits.” Her grin faltered, a sudden shade of hesitation settling along her brow. She glanced up at the ceiling, thumbs now drumming on the tabletop. “But you know, it’s okay if you want to go slow, too. It’s not like we have to rush—”

Yang stopped speaking the moment Blake took her hand and brought it to her mouth. She landed an open kiss right in the valley between the first and second knuckle, noting the silver dashes of old scars over the skin. The kiss was a bit wet, she had to admit, but how else could she enjoy how pleasant the flesh felt against the soft curve on the inside of her lip? She lingered for just a moment before pecking lightly atop the tiny damp spot there. Blake hummed, delighted at Yang’s now-petrified expression. It was good to be on the other side of embarrassment for once.

“Uh,” Yang said. Her eyes were wide now, like a startled puppy. Her blush made Blake smile like sadness had never touched her.

It would seem after their long separation it took little to fluster Yang. How delightful.

She turned Yang’s hand over, stroking two fingers along the fine lines of the palm and the rough calluses under each knuckle, amused by the barest hint of perspiration beginning to form along the skin there. Yang was still frozen, though Blake could hear the deepening of every breath she took; she closed her eyes and listened, her sharp hearing picking up the faint pulse of Yang’s heartbeat flutter nervously through the skin of her wrist. She was far more bashful than what she would have Blake believe. Blake clasped the hand with both of hers, resting her cheek against it.

“Do I make you nervous?” She asked. Yang swallowed.

“You have no idea.” She said with a weak smile. “Those letters you sent didn’t leave much to the imagination.” She huffed, as if pre-empting a snicker. “Don’t laugh! I can’t help it! When I think about what you wrote…it’s hard to think, you know?” 

Blake brushed a kiss to Yang’s palm, then released it. She felt very amused indeed.

“You’re so earnest. I love that about you.” She smirked. “But first thing’s first. Let’s talk about this plan.”

 

 

 

If Blake had kissed her again that night, Yang was sure she would’ve had an aneurysm. A major artery would’ve burst—probably the carotid in her neck, right where Blake’s chin rested as they hugged goodbye—and she would’ve dropped dead, her last sight of the living world the spectacular warm gaze of the woman she’d fallen head-over-heels for carrying her along into oblivion.

As deaths go, Yang wouldn’t have complained. How did Blake put it in her letters?

_I would live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes._

Her heart jumped against her ribs thinking about it. It was the same dizzying adrenaline that pumped liquid-gold through her veins when her Semblance kicked in, all streams of shivering exhilaration and consuming heat. She was lucky she didn’t set fire to something in Blake’s apartment by accident.

Ruby and Weiss were asleep when she got back to Beacon. Cardin sat up in his bunk, playing a game on his scroll that beeped obnoxiously every couple of seconds. He looked up and sneered.

“Welcome back, dickstain.”

God, she hated him. Yang snatched her pajamas from her bed and went to change in the bathroom. As she looked in the mirror, she noticed that her hair held a faint glow to it; thinking about Blake’s letter had her running hot. At least her eyes weren’t red—she would’ve had to go for a run if she was that aroused. She ran cold water in the sink and splashed her face with it. When she came out, Cardin snickered at her.

“What, no witty banter, Xiao Long? No parade of middle fingers?”

“Fuck off,” She grunted. “That good enough?"

“Easy, Blondie, I’m just being polite. You don’t go out alone much. I was worried.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine.”

“Better than fine, I’d say; you’re pinker than one of Nora’s grenades. Did you get lucky tonight, Yang? Did you pick someone up?”

She hauled herself into bed, making sure not to give into temptation and give Cardin a good kick in the ribs as she climbed. He pressed her with a few more questions, stupid shit, but in the wake of her silence he gave up fast. He turned the light out, and in the darkness Yang thought about Adam.

Adam was still looking for her and the woman Yang loved was in danger. Blake was in danger.

Yang would fight him to the death if she had to. God, the look on Blake’s face when she said that; if cities rose and fell, if gods fought and tore the earth asunder, it would be for a woman like Blake. She was beautiful. She was dark and virtuous and so, so smart. She was lovely. Before meeting her, Yang thought she knew what attraction was, what passion felt like—she had made love to others, enjoyed the pleasure of secure embraces and messy breakfasts and slow kisses under streetlamps—but she was so off-base. Those things were enjoyable, but they weren’t complete.

Completeness was learning that the girl she met in a single event months ago, the one who turned against an entire terrorist organization for her, had risked torture and death to protect her from afar. It was knowing Blake was willing to eat half-rotten apples and stale bread from dumpsters rather than flee to another kingdom. Completeness was Yang’s hands in Blake’s grasp. It was the soft touch of her lips. It was reading secret emails and letters: some of them were about growing up without a mother, Blake afraid and alone, eleven years old and putting a fork through a man’s hand when he tried to touch her at a shelter. Others were nostalgic, funny even—there was a story about a dog and a can of beans that came to mind—and still more were anxious, worry for Yang all but wringing the words. 

And a few, sent on crumpled, scavenged notebook paper with no return address, were unbearably romantic. Blake’s fine handwriting flew across the pages, smudged through speed and the occasional water-spot (Yang wondered if they were tears), but full of beauty. Yang could never hope to match the poetry contained there; if she wrote a page, all it would say would be the same phrase repeated into infinity: _I love you. I love you. I love you._ But Blake’s letters—oh, Blake’s letters would make stones weep. 

That kind of goodness had to be protected. Because despite what Blake thought about herself, despite the guilt she carried about her past and the righteous anger she held onto like a hot coal in her chest, despite the shitty circumstances the Universe had dealt her, she was the purest person Yang had ever met. Well, besides Ruby anyway. Blake knew firsthand that there was evil in the world, and she wanted to fight it until her last breath. Yang wished she could say she had Blake’s conviction. She would be lying if she said becoming a Huntress wasn’t to please her father and to give her the chance to go on wild adventures with her sister.

Speaking of Ruby, her snores were quiet tonight. A quick glance to the lower bunk across the room confirmed what Yang had already guessed: Ruby was quiet because she was enfolded in Weiss’s arms, her head dipped to the small swell of her partner’s breasts as they slept, Weiss’s hair fanned across the pillow in a gorgeous palladium wave. Yang smiled. Weiss made Ruby so happy. She closed her eyes, thinking of how she could do the same for Blake.

In the morning, Yang traveled to the CCT tower and got to work. Blake had given her a list of data points to crank into her contact’s neural network; the data seemed random, but with enough time algorithms would determine points of overlap, and from there the pair would find a place to start. It was a good set of information: attacks on anti-Faunus public workers, reports of discriminatory shops vandalized, meta-data relating to soup kitchens and other targeted poverty-relief efforts flying under the radar of the local government—that one threw Yang for a loop. She never figured the White Fang did more than hurt innocent people.

“Why do you think so many people join the White Fang?” Blake had asked the previous night. “They help the less fortunate survive when the government turns its back on them. In some areas, they’re the only ones providing any kind of stability.”

“Is that why you joined?” Blake nodded.

“That was part of it, yes.”

Yang thought about that as she watched the data collate into a virtual cloud. If she and Ruby had been in Blake’s position as children, would the White Fang still seem so misguided? She wanted to think so, but she wasn’t so sure—Yang thought with her gut, and she was hard-pressed to deny the respect she could give to those relief efforts. It was the rest of it that bothered her; the violence, the destruction of peoples’ businesses, and the prejudice towards humans that hadn’t done anything. Blake had explained that it was more complicated than that, but Yang wasn’t as abstract of a thinker—it would take time to understand what she meant. 

Yang gnawed at a hangnail on her thumb. The CCT was a marvel of modern engineering, but a miracle worker it was not. There were a lot of areas that needed to be cross-referenced, and so much data extended the process. If Ruby were here she could probably show her how to optimize the work, but getting anyone else involved was out of the question. No, she would wait as long as it took. She waited and planned.

From what Blake knew, the White Fang in Vale were scattered. The morning after Yang was retrieved from the tiny town she fled to after escaping, the capital sent one of their Special Forces teams to the White Fang base—the shootout was all over the news. A lot of the Faunus had died there on the farm, and others fled across the ocean to Vacuo or through the mountains across Mistral’s southern border. Few came to the capital city. It was too risky to be in Vale, and a spat of violence against Faunus after the attack made it even less appealing. Yang remembered how worried for Blake she was then. She had felt sick with worry. It took a lot of exercise and sparring matches to manage it.

The White Fang left in Vale were few. Blake knew some of them: Adam, of course, and a big lieutenant with a tribal tattoo on his left arm. There were more, but they were money launderers and pamphleteers, not killers. That was good: two versus two. 

“Don’t get cocky,” Blake had said, “I’ve seen Adam take on dozens of soldiers by himself.”

He hadn’t fought Yang, though. She popped her knuckles. He didn’t scare her. Between her and Blake, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

“No one can stand against the power of love!” She said to herself, and snickered. 

But then she considered the matter seriously. If it came down to it, it was possible her Semblance could absorb that crazy energy-slash thing Adam used—Blake said she had never seen it fail to decimate any enemy in his way, but the faculty at Beacon told Yang her Semblance was still untapped to its fullest potential. For all she knew, taking that kind of hit would be a one-shot victory. Or she would die at Adam’s hands and Blake would follow soon after.

 _I’ll never let him hurt her,_ she thought. Her mouth set in a firm line.

The program beeped and Yang abandoned all other thoughts. She searched though the CCTV file the algorithm found, and charted the White Fang lieutenant’s path from a subway station to a parking garage a few blocks away. She skipped ahead in the footage until she spotted the car driving out onto the street, and just as it emerged the footage gave out. Yang checked the system’s data log; there had been a blackout for approximately forty-three minutes that night, cause undetermined. Forty-three minutes was more than enough time to get to any part of town and stash a car. Was it a coincidence, or someone covering their tracks? It was the latter. It had to be. Yang checked other video feeds. In different areas of the city she saw snatches of him checking in with White Fang supporters at shops and homes, but she could never catch him heading to a safe house. The footage always bleeped out, like it had been tampered with. It all likelihood, it probably had. She sighed. At least it was a place to start.

 

 

 

They staked out the parking garage for several nights. There was a coffee shop across the street, and when Yang wasn’t at classes she sat with Blake and watched, ready to leap onto Bumblebee at the first sign of their quarry. Blake didn’t know how effective any of this was; she was at work until two in the afternoon most days, and in such a large stretch of time they easily could miss the lieutenant’s coming and going.

“He’s got to have a schedule if he’s working with other White Fang members.” Yang said and draped her hand over Blake’s. “He’ll be around at some point. Don’t worry, we’ll spot him.”

The time waiting there was not time wasted either. While they took turns watching the parking garage, they talked with each other; after all those one-sided conversations, Yang was happy to be able to respond. And talking with Blake made her slow down and think in the best way—she knew her style was to live in the moment, but talking like they did made her think about what would come after. She thought about what would happen when she left Beacon behind, and goals she wanted to meet before then. After the first night Yang brought her homework with her, and in two weeks her grades were far better than they had ever before. 

“I can’t believe it.” Yang said one afternoon. “You must be working some real magic on me.” Blake shook her head.

“It’s all you.” She said. Now that made Yang roll her eyes.

“Doubt it. My grades are never this good, even when I study with Ruby. It’s not me, it’s because you’re a good influence—you’re my lucky charm.” She paused. “Because of you, I want to be better.”

Wow. Blake looked so cute when she tried to hold in a smile like that.

Avoiding questions from her teammates about where she went wasn’t hard for Yang. Weiss was thrilled about her newfound academic success, of course, and didn’t ask, and Cardin didn’t give a shit about where she went. Ruby wondered about why she was gone at night so often, but Yang brushed it off as a new relationship. Which, hey, technically it was. It just had more potential fighting and possible injury and/or death than others.

“I miss school,” Blake said, idly turning a page in Yang’s textbook.

“I bet you were really good at it.”

She nodded. “I was, though now I’m probably several grades behind.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“I don’t think any of the things I’ve learned would be tested in Beacon’s curriculum.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they’re worthless.” Blake shrugged. Yang passed her a pencil. “Think about what you want to do after this, Blake. After I graduate, I’m going to need to a new partner, and Beacon holds Huntress certifications all the time. We’ll figure out a plan for you. You’re not the first person who’s wanted a fresh start.” 

Blake thought about that, then began a fresh sketch on a piece of notebook paper. When Yang looked up again later, it was a portrait of her own face. Blake was flattering her: she would never look that beautiful otherwise. Yang rested her face in her hand and looked from the drawing to the strong fingers holding the pencil, then followed the line of Blake’s arm up to the firm curve of her shoulder. There, after enjoying the ridge of her clavicle just visible above the collar of her shirt, Yang’s eyes fell on Blake’s lips. She had to remind herself of what Summer always told her, that it wasn’t polite to stare. But it was difficult not to; she felt closer to Blake with each hour, and with that came the urge to kiss her like the first day they met.  


Yang knew Blake felt the same way; that was what made it so unbearable. Just a few days ago, as they stood underneath the flickering light of her apartment’s stoop, a strange pause worked its way into the ritual of their parting. They were hugging, and Blake’s cheek swept against her own and somehow their mouths brushed—not a kiss, but a touch; Yang waited for Blake, not wanting to take what had yet to be given freely again—and they stayed there, kissing-but-not-kissing, for a long moment. Blake’s fingers explored the soft curls on the nape of Yang’s neck, and her own hands tightened around Blake’s waist. It lasted for only a few seconds; Yang was too caught up in the soft touch of Blake’s lips to notice quite when the other girl broke contact, only opened her eyes as if she had just emerged from a dream after it finished. That began a very direct and very short conversation: Not yet, Blake said. After all of this was finished, then yes. A million times yes. Yang agreed, but it was hard. Quiet moments like this one, watching Blake draw, brought out all of her desires again.

The moments were long, but the days were short. During the third week, they were caught by surprise. The night had passed without a spotting of the lieutenant, so Yang walked Blake outside under the awning to take her home. It was pouring fat, cold raindrops and their breath turned to chilly mist in the air; Yang was not pleased. She gave Blake her leather jacket to wear and ran out first to start up Bumblebee right away. Blake winced comically in the rain as she followed.

Blake had just wrapped her arms around Yang’s stomach when a shot rang out and a loud ping sounded against a helmet. She slumped against Yang’s back before crashing down to the pavement. Yang ducked her head in a shock of fear and surprise, and another high-powered shot—one that would’ve punctured her lung through her back if not for her Aura—blew her off Bumblebee as well. Her elbow cracked on the ground and she cried out through gritted teeth. 

The rage did not come white-hot in an instant like it always did; Yang felt it simmer behind her eyes as she rolled over and rose to find her footing again. As she stood, two rounds buried themselves thick in the space of her Aura before dropping to the ground. _Where?_ She thought. She squinted against the rain. _Where?_ She smashed her fists together, her hair aflame now, eyes scanning dark windows and shadows for the shooter. Blake groaned at her feet, stifling any fear that the bullet had been true to its mark. As she placed herself between Blake and the sniper, Yang glanced down for an instant, fighting every instinct and urge to get down and check on her lover. There was blood in the air. She could smell it.

“Are you okay?” She asked, her voice raw. Blake tore the motorcycle helmet away, heaving panicked gasps of air.

“I’m fine! Go!”

In the alleyway down the street, a muzzle flashed. By the time the bullet impacted against her shoulder, Yang was sprinting towards the shooter.

 _There! ___Yang thought.

That last shot hadn’t penetrated, but the round touched hot to her skin through her t-shirt before falling away. It was an anti-material rifle of some kind, had to be—probably a .50 caliber or higher, the kind they use for tanks, or else she wouldn’t be at risk from so few hits. Yang let loose a few wild explosive shots with Ember Celica; they gleamed like Roman candle flares until they burst against the White Fang lieutenant’s massive frame, staggering him. 

"You little shit!” Yang shouted. 

The lieutenant lowered his rifle, converting into a chainsaw easily as tall as Yang herself. As she entered into his reach, he swung the tool in an arc, and it smashed into her left gauntlet in a hot spray of sparks. Flecks of bright metal pricked hot against Yang’s face. She didn’t waste any time. 

His reach would kill her if she couldn’t stay close. She brought up her other arm to transfer the path of the saw along her other gauntlet, deflecting it at an angle upwards—she delivered a sharp inside strike to the man’s solar plexus. Ember Celica pumped buckshot into the shroud of his Aura; he winced, and she ducked in for a shot to his liver. With her Semblance activated, he should’ve gone down. 

He didn’t. 

_Tough fucker._ She thought grimly. This was not good, but if she could stay inside the reach of that chainsaw, she could make it. 

She went for the knees next. The chainsaw cut a wide swath of air in the spot she had been just a second ago, but she had already pivoted around behind the lieutenant’s large body. She stomped hard on the back of his knee, and when he stumbled she drove a fist into his spine the same way she would hammer a nail into a plank of wood. The lieutenant almost cut her legs at the ankles when he swept the saw around again, forcing her to jump away. 

This dude was enormous, and Yang had lost her meager advantage. He spat onto the ground. 

“I’ll kill you.” He growled. 

The most Yang could do was sidestep and duck with each attack as best she could; the slick cement made each sharp turn a hazard. Here and there her opponent went too wide, and she could fire directly into his face, but she had to get control of that weapon. Sacrificing the last scrap of her Aura’s protection, she slid into striking range and unleashed percussive blows to the man’s wrists, elbows, and face. The chainsaw ground against her barrier until finally, horribly, only air remained between the teeth of the blade and her exposed skin. It began to rend flesh in an instant. 

It was enough. His grip opened after a strike and she jerked the weapon away right before his forehead smashed into her nose with a sickening pop. A punch split her lip; his strong hands cinched about her waist and he tossed her against the side of the building, her head bursting with stars as it met the brick exterior. The blow was dizzying, but it wouldn’t weaken her like this, not with her Semblance thirsting for damage; the lieutenant pummeled her on the ground now—a break happened somewhere along her right collarbone, but it wasn’t painful yet through the bright flow of her rage. It was now or never. He thought she was done, and she had to prove him wrong like so many others. She caught one fist, and squeezed down. 

Her strength was exponential like this. When she clenched his hand, the bones and tendons mushed together like a rotten piece of fruit. He cried out, his face twisted in pain and surprise. Yang felt calm; they were on the same page now. His other hand wrapped around her throat, and as he strangled her Yang broke a new rib with every shotgunned punch. 

Blake finished it in the end. One second the lieutenant’s hand was tight against Yang’s throat, and the next he fell unconscious at her side, Gambol Shroud’s heavy sheath clenched tight in Blake’s fist and spattered with blood on the broad side. He would wake up with head trauma at the very least. Now out of danger, Yang’s Semblance fled her body—the pain was all there now, sharp and blunt and burning at once—and Blake was by her side, Gambol Shroud forgotten on the ground next to her. 

“Oh,” Blake breathed. Her fingers traced feather-light over the huge lump on the side of Yang’s skull. She pressed a kiss to Yang’s wet bangs, and probed the rest of her face and scalp, eventually working down to the neck and observing the bruises there. 

“It’s not bad,” Yang slurred. Her tongue didn’t work right, and her voice was harsh and raspy. She coughed, and smiled through bloody teeth. “I guess he left me breathless, huh?” 

Blake murmured, concerned. 

“What?” Yang asked. 

“I said you might have a concussion.” Blake said and grimaced, observing the gash from the chainsaw along her ribs. She brought a hand to it, keeping pressure on the wound. 

As Blake looked her over and prodded for further injuries, Yang dully noted the wide slice on the side of her lover’s head; the hair was slick with rain and the blood from where the bullet had grazed her, but it looked shallow enough. 

“Broken collarbone, broken nose, bleeding, concussion…shit.” Blake brought the back of Yang’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. 

“Jesus, Yang,” She muttered. “For a Huntress, you sure get beat up a lot.” 

A broken collarbone sure was a hassle when you wanted to laugh as hard as Yang did now. Despite the pain a soft snicker escaped, and Blake shook her head, grateful for some levity. 

Blake sat her up as carefully as she could. Sirens sounded in the distance. 

“Come on,” She said. “Let’s get you patched up.” 

Blake wanted to take her to an Emergency Room, or at least home to Beacon, but Yang wouldn’t have it. 

“If we go to Beacon, I won’t be able to stop Ruby from going after Adam. I don’t want her messed up in this. And if we go to the ER, the moment they sign in my biometric data my dad’s going to be all over me.” She said. 

She had a point. And really, a day or two of rest would replenish her Aura enough to take care of the more pressing injuries. 

“You’re going to be in pain until tomorrow, and that’s the best-case scenario.” Blake said. 

“Yeah, but I can take it.” 

“Still—”

“Blake, I know you worry about me, but I promise that it’s not that bad. I’ve got a crazy-high heal rate and you’re here. I’ll be fine.” 

After Yang sent Ruby a text devoid of all the concerning details excusing her night out, Blake helped her into the bathroom. Peeling away her sodden t-shirt, Yang examined the raw wound on her side and winced. Calling it horrific would not do it justice. Blake hated how vicious it looked; it broke her heart thinking about how painful it must be, all jagged edges and chewed skin. After drying Yang off from the rain and cutting the shirt open with a pair of scissors, Blake cleaned the injury and bound it with gauze and a few feet of white bandages, shushing Yang when she tried to insist on doing it herself. The bleeding controlled, Blake ordered her to sit on edge of the bathtub so she could address the collarbone next. 

“I…” She frowned. “Can I…?” Yang stared at her blankly. Blake gestured to the straps of her bra. Suddenly, it clicked. 

“Oh!” Yang’s eyes widened. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

This was not how Blake had imagined seeing Yang’s body for the first time. She avoided looking too low as she undid the hooks of the bra and removed it, and Yang kept her gaze fixed to the wall beside them. Blake’s hands fumbled with the bandage. Yang’s injury popped large and disjointed along her skin, as if a toy car had been sunk under the flesh without her knowing. Blake was careful not to manipulate it, only keep it secure under the binding. 

“He really did a number here,” She said, winding the bandage in a figure-eight around Yang’s back and shoulders. 

“Better me than you,” Yang muttered. 

“Don’t say that.” She said, more sharply than she meant. She paused, controlling the concern tearing its way through her chest, and began again. “You’re very valiant, but I won’t let you keep throwing yourself into danger like this.” 

“It’s who I am. You knew that about me from the first day we met.” 

“I know, and I’m afraid one day you’re not going to be able to beat whoever you’re fighting. You won’t be lucky all the time, Yang.” 

“This is about Adam, isn’t it?” 

Frustration rumbled under Blake’s sigh. She tested the bandage, gently manipulating Yang’s shoulders to test the tightness of the wrap. Satisfied, she went to the kitchen and pulled ice from the freezer. She dropped the cubes into a bag, crushed them against the counter, and wrapped them in a towel for Yang’s nose. Back in the bathroom Yang groaned as Blake applied the cold pack to her face. 

“Adam’s not invincible, Blake.” She said. “You said we could take him if we had the advantage of surprise.” 

“Yes, and we don’t have that now. The police have the lieutenant by now, and Adam will either get out of the kingdom for awhile or put more effort into hunting us down. My guess is on the latter.” 

“Well, if that’s the case we’ll kick his ass. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m not going to back down either.” 

“You’re too reckless.” 

“It’s not recklessness to fight for the woman you love.” 

There it was. The feeling unspoken between them for many months—hidden in poetry and glances and sweet, soft caresses—laid bare at last. Yang curled a loose hand around Blake’s wrist and pulled away the ice, her face flushed in spite of the strength radiating from her eyes as she looked up at her. 

“I told you before.” She said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” 

Blake kissed her then. It was chaste, barely an open kiss, but it lingered; the air stilled around them, as quiet as the soft hitch of Yang’s breathing as Blake’s hands found her cheeks. Wonderful and horrible thoughts of the future filled her head: pain and blood and screams, joy and lovemaking and quiet moments where Yang amazed her—her greatest fears and desires intertwined and danced and collapsed upon one another. The squeezing in Blake’s heart would end her. She kissed Yang again, deeper than the first time. 

“I love you,” She whispered. She felt rigid inside, like she was waiting for a blow that would never come. “You don’t know how much I love you.” 

Yang opened her mouth to speak but desperate kisses stopped any words from coming. They kissed and it tore Blake apart until she trembled under the weight of tears that would not fall. Wordlessly, Yang stood and held her hand. They walked to Blake’s bedroom, sat on the beat-up mattress on the floor, and after a grimace and some shifting Blake found her head comfortably settled in Yang’s lap as her companion rested against the wall. 

“I’m never going to leave you.” Yang said very softly. She brushed away errant bangs from Blake’s face. She was so gentle. “I’m always going to be right here.” 

“I—” God, it was so hard to speak. Blake’s throat was a knot. “I never used to—to feel like this. Not until I met you.” It was easier before. She hardly felt anything at all. “And when I think about us, and what could happen, I…I…” 

“Shhhh,” Yang whispered. She found Blake’s hand and held it. “It’s okay. It’s alright to be afraid.” 

“I _worry_ about you, Yang.” 

“I know. And I don’t mean to scare you. It’s just…you’ve changed me too, you know? You gave me direction.” She frowned, as if trying to find the words. 

“I want to be with you, Blake. All your pain, all the fear—I want to help you get through it. I want to love you so much you can’t remember feeling anything else. And—” She squeezed Blake’s hand. “And I want to tell you that every day; I want to tell you that I love you every day so you’ll never forget.” 

The way she said it was artless; it was pure, just like her. For a moment it was all Blake could do just to squeeze back with her hand, because if she thought about the affection pounding through her for one more second her heart would swell to bursting. What a strange thing their love was: sweet and sad bound together at once. Yang sniffed. 

“You know,” She said. “When you look like you’re about to cry, it makes me want to cry too.” 

And there were tears in Yang’s eyes now, gathering small and bright at the corners. One dribbled down her cheek; Blake reached up and brushed it away. 

“Jeez,” Yang said. “We’re such babies.” 

There was no talking after that, not for a long while. And when they did begin to talk again—after Yang had settled onto her back and Blake placed their entwined hands next to her heart—it only concerned itself with the moment. The White Fang would wait. Adam would wait, at least for now. They saw each other: they saw the promise of that first fated meeting at last unfolding right in this moment, in this place, stretching into many years ahead. Blake saw Yang, and she could see her in return: they were flawed, broken, rash, but together. And with each other, they felt whole. Blake wrapped her arms around Yang’s waist and the world clicked into place. 

She was home. 

**Author's Note:**

> A reader asked for a sequel to Spark, and while I hadn't planned on one originally as soon as she suggested it ideas flooded in. "Why not?" I thought, and here we are. This was very enjoyable to write, and I hope you enjoy reading it--I still can't format on AO3 for shit.
> 
> Every time I tell myself that I'm going to write a Bumblebee story where Yang doesn't get beat up and Blake doesn't cry at some point. Clearly, this story was not it. I can't help it! It suits them so well. :)


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